The Ink Master
by ShatteredAngelWings
Summary: [Modern! HP] After his proven innocence, Snape vanishes into the Muggle world, where he takes up tattooing people. He's left everything behind him in the Wizarding world and is content. What happens when Hermione Granger comes to him, demanding a tattoo? And why is she covered in scars and bruises? Rated for self-harm, mentions of abuse and suicide/suicidal thoughts
1. Chapter 1

**The Ink Master **

One

_In which Hermione wants a tattoo_

"MR. SNAPE?" THE girl with big gauges and cherry-red hair asked timidly as she stepped into the tattoo parlor. Snape looked up curiously from the woman he was tattooing, the pen vibrating in his gloved hand. "There's a woman here wanting to speak with you. Says her name is…Hermione Granger."

The pen nearly dropped from his hand. What was _she _doing here? In Muggle London—in a _tattoo _parlor, nonetheless? The Dark wizard straightened up, assured his client he wouldn't be long and Tiffany (the girl with the gauges) would look after her, and hurried away. When he pushed open the door, he found a beautifully curvy woman sitting in the recliner.

Her hair, a honey-brown color, was wildly curly and pulled into a half-ponytail; her skin, sun-kissed from spending vast amounts of time outside, was dotted with simple tattoos (an otter on her bicep, a roaring lion on her forearm and a parade of stars that wound around her wrist), and her eyes, framed by long eyelashes, were the color of caramel.

Her curvy figure was accented by the green-and-silver tank top and tight black jeans with peep toe pumps that made her legs look slender and long.

She was twisting a ring on her thumb, a silver band with a bloodstone in the middle, and barely noticed his presence. "Miss Granger?" he asked and she turned. "Professor Snape?" she asked in a pleasantly warm voice. "What are you doing here?" they asked simultaneously. She shifted.

"I want a tattoo," she said. "I work here," he said. He crossed his long arms over his chest, languidly gazing at her curvy figure. "And?" he sighed. "A friend of mine recommended you," she replied, crossing her legs and leaning back. She looked divine.

"Why are you working in a Muggle tattoo shop?" she asked, standing up and brushing back her bangs. "I have neither interest nor reason to stay in the Wizarding world," he answered, eyeing the girl—no, _young woman_—in front of him. She looked slightly ruffled, her hair mussed, and he wondered if she had brushed it or just went out the door like that.

"I…I'm sorry."

Snape crossed his arms. "What for, Miss Granger?" "It's Hermione. And…for everything, for being such a bother to you when you were trying to help us the entire time, for letting you get bitten, for—for…everything. For being a know-it-all, for being bushy-haired and buck-toothed…" She trailed off, tugging at the rubber band around her wrist before snapping it against her skin. He saw, as she shifted her arm to soothe the small red welt growing, the small, fading scars running up her forearm.

"Miss Granger, sit down."

She sat, rubbing her wrist almost worriedly. "I noticed you have scars on your arm," he said slowly, settling into the seat across from her. She froze. "Don't. It's okay. The pain and anger overwhelm you…you don't know where to turn…no one listens…" He stopped, his own arms throbbing with the ghost of long-healed scars. "Show me your arms."

She did so, her long arms stretched out and he saw white scars trailing up to her elbow. "I…I…There was so much hate mail when I broke off my relationship with Ron," she whispered, trembling, "and I drank and drank until the hurt was gone…"

Snap nodded calmly, stroking the scars softly. "I passed out after I cut too deep and woke up at St. Mungo's. They closed the cuts with magic but self-inflicted scars won't heal magically. People I don't even _know _sent me Howlers. The paparazzi wouldn't stop hounding me so I stayed at Spinner's End."

"My house?" He tried to keep his voice level as the thought of Hermione in his house_,_ in his _room, _in his _bed, _rose.

"It's Unplottable, isn't it?" When he nodded, she relaxed. "Nobody disturbed me there. No one knew I was even there." She smiled softly. "It was amazing, to be in the background for once, just the girl with scars on her arms. I used a few charms to make my eyes look murky blue, my hair stringy and thin; I made myself thinner, shorter; someone easily unnoticed and no on questioned who I was." She stared at the place his thumb rubbed. "It was so peaceful."

Hermione looked into Snape's eyes as she whispered, "I only wish you could've been there with me. You're actually the only person I wanted with me." Her face was steadily growing red. "I mean, your intelligent, snarky, but you're really sweet," she babbled while averting her gaze to the tabletop.

He smiled softly.

"You got your teeth fixed!" she blurted and then proceeded to turn redder than a tomato. "Yes, Hermione, I did." He relaxed, lacing his fingers with hers; his thumb was rubbing the small scar on the web between her pointer finger and thumb. Hermione shifted, her eyes averted.

"You think _I'm _sweet, Miss Granger?"

"I _told _you: it's Hermione."

"We are not friends."

She stiffened at his remark and pulled her hands away. "I want to be," she said, looking him in the eyes. Snape shook his head.

"Leave me be, Miss Granger. I left the Wizarding world behind for a reason and I do not need you to drive knives into my freshly healed scars."

"Let me help you. We can fix each other." He stood up and walked around her chair; he pulled open the door. "Leave." She glared at him. "Snape—" "_Leave, _Miss Granger—or is it Weasley now?" he sneered. Her eyes narrowed. "You coward," she breathed. He froze. "_What _did you call me?" he snarled, slamming the door shut with much more force than he realized. He stalked close to her and leaned down.

"You coward." Her voice was trembling and she was quivering. "You've locked yourself away from who you are. You ignore everyone. I've spent years and _years, _Snape, waiting for you, hoping to build something that wasn't hate. But I now I see that you're nothing but a heartless old man who's closed his heart so tight that _he can't feel._" There were tears running down her face and she was sobbing softly.

"Why would you want to build something with me?"

"I can't tell you."

He slammed his fist into the table and she jerked away, hands flying up to protect her face. The sour, acidic taste of bile rose in his throat. "Miss—"

She stared down at her lap, refusing to meet his gaze. "I'll leave you be. It seems I'm not wanted." She got up and stepped closer.

Her warm breath fanned against his cheek.

"I'm sorry."

Her lips brushed his skin and then she was gone. He could've sworn he saw a glimpse of dark skin on her neck, in the shape of a hand.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Ink Master**

Two

_In which Snape's gets angry_

HIS HANDS WERE shaking when he pulled open the door. He heard a loud crack and then everything fell silent; Tiffany poked her head in. "Everything okay, Mr. Snape?" she asked. He couldn't say it was, to be point blank, but he shook it off and forced an air of nonchalance. "Yes, Miss Jones, it is."

He brushed passed her and made his way to the parlor, where his client awaited to finish the tattoo. He blocked out the encounter with Miss Granger and focused solely on his work at hand.

oOo

Rolling out the kinks in his back, Snape stood and stretched; his arms went up and he stared at the sleeves of tattoos lacing the pale skin there. Years had passed and that one damnable tattoo, the Dark Mark, had yet to cease moving. Had yet to disappear.

Tiffany had headed home, to her wife of two years and their beautiful mixed little girl. Snape wasn't in a rush to get home, he had no lover, no animals; he was alone in that clean, bare flat he rented out. He didn't need anyone…

And yet, his minded drifted to Miss Granger. She'd certainly grown into a fine, curvy woman. She was plump, no doubt she thought herself overweight, but he liked a woman with weight, with meat on her bones. Her hair was, he thought with a tiny smile quirking the corners of his mouth up, as wild and atrocious as it had been when she was a student. Her eyes, though, seemed haunted, bruised underneath from sleepless nights. Her skin was pale, despite the tan, and she looked a bit white in the face, like she was trying not to be sick where she sat.

She looked worn, weathered.

Snape raked his fingers through his hair as he thought harder about the girl half his age. He'd been so sure that he'd seen a bruise in the shape of the handprint on her shoulder as she stalked away in a way that made him wonder if she'd been doing it for years.

Groaning, he pulled himself to his feet, feeling his bones creak with age, and glanced around the parlor. It was dark, lengthening shadows crawling across the floor; it reminded him of the dark meeting that took place in the abandoned manor, not far from Knockturn Alley.

Clenching his jaw, the spy turned away from the shadows and walked towards the beam of moonlight. Outside, the night sky was dotted with a milky splattering of stars and the moon, a big, fat circle of milk, hung high in the sky, suspended by gravity's strings. He felt as though the shadows were alive, dancing, trying to drown him.

He squeezed his hands into fists and, with Hermione pushed into the far recess of his brain; he focused his mind solely on Apparating to a quiet little bar for a drink.

oOo

Hermione's face was on fire as she poured down another drink. The pub was loud, unusual; she flinched and shied away into the wall whenever a man passed her.

All week, despite him now being in Azkaban, her mind kept mulling over the tiny details: His crooked finger from a bar fight. The stink of liquor on his breath when he came home to take her. The way he wrapped his hands around her neck as he showed her how much he loved her, squeezing tighter and tighter until she felt dizzy with lack of oxygen. The bruises on her thighs. The broken nose when she wanted to leave him. The feel of his fingertips digging into her skull when he dragged her through the house by her hair, making her kick and scream. That had been the first time he hit her, the first time she saw him implode on himself, the first time he grabbed her by the hair.

The witch pressed the watery glass against her forehead. "Miss Granger?" asked a purring, dark voice. She absently rolled her head in the man's direction, her eyebrows rising at the sight of her ex-Professor.

Severus Snape looked devilishly handsome in his muscle work shirt, a black button up and sleeves rolled to his elbows, tucked into his tight black jeans. His dragon-hide boots tapped the floor to the rhythm of Lana Del Ray's Summertime Sadness.

"Are you here to mock me?" she asked blearily, tasting blood on the roof of her mouth. "Why would I?" he responded crossly, his eyes narrowing to slits at her. She let out a laugh and then cut herself off, clamping a hand over her loud mouth. She leaned closer to him, nearly tipping the table in process and met his eyes.

"Damn bastard locked up in Azkaban," she explained with a wheezy laugh. He eyeballed her warily. "He's getting his," she whispered and slumped back to her seide of the table; he was staring at her, unreadable as always, his hands cupping his cup. He was hunched over his drink, like he was afraid someone would either swipe his drink or easedrop on their conversation.

Hermione felt her mind drift away from her; how odd alchohol made her feel, detached and quiet, calming the storm raging in her brain. She smiled at him softly, resting her upturned hands on her cheeks. She felt drowsy, her mind fuddled; Snape—no, _Severus_.

Okay.

_Severus _kept tucking his hair behind her ears, letting her see his high cheekbones and strong, sharp jaw, the slight flush on his cheeks. She studied him; he looked healthy. His hair was shiny and greasy but his skin was darker, not so pallor. He was lean but muscular; she knew from he stood there in fornt of her before, angry as hell.

He noticed her staring and his face arranged in a scowl but his cheeks darkened red. He snarled softly, his duck his head down, hair hiding his cheeks. He looked so much better with his hair tucked back; he looked so nice, so calm and quiet, so…_different. _Lunging across the table, she meant to push back his long hair but ended up pressing her palm all over his face.

A minute ticked by in strained silence. The conversations were no less than a buzz in the back of her mind. He jolted away, his face stormy. Threw down a few knuts and sickles. He was silent for the longest time and then, "I'll walk you home, Miss Granger. You're no fit to do so by your lonesome."

She couldn't stop the grin spreading across her face if she wanted to.


End file.
